Category Archives: Food/Drink

Life with Sister: Tales from the Great Texas Blizzard & Blackout of ’21 – Part 2

Posted on February 23, 2021 | Leave a comment

In Part 1 of this adventure I introduced you to several characters. There was Alma, the Salvaruvian housekeeper who pulled a “Mary Poppins”. There was the liquor store lady who introduced me to a swirling ~~mess of crap in a glass~~ new cocktail. There was Airport Drunk who clearly wasn’t paying attention during the safety video. And there wasSister, the gregarious ex-nun who chose to spend her vacation in the warmth of our Texas winter. Now I should like to tell you about Sister’s adventures proper. Buckle up.

Tuesday February 9, 2021

I awoke to find the highballs from our Yankee Candles (the bijou cocktail lest you forgot) sitting in the sink, and a few empty bags of Whataburger in the trash can. It was like the aftermath of a frat party where Mother Teresa was the pledge. Now it was time to show Sister the sights. My wife prides herself on being able to find the most unusual places to visit. These are places that exude just the right amount of local flair without seeming too “kitschy”. And every visit to Dallas should begin with a trip to… Fort Worth, the “Gateway to the West”. That reminds me of the first time I visited Detroit as a television producer. I found myself in the driver’s seat of a rental car driving a 92 year-old black woman around town on our way to our location shoot. Struggling for small talk because I’m apparently not down with the swirl, we found ourselves discussing the local flavor. After a few moments of silence I said to my guest, “Oh, I went over to Windsor [Ontario] last night and saw a few bars and casinos.” To this the old lady replied, “I’ve been livin’ here almost a century and I always said the best part of Detroit is Canada.” And then she pulled out a guitar and sang three verses of the folk tune Freight Train. And then she died. And what might be in Fort Worth, you ask? For starters, we went to a pickle museum. No, that’s it. A literal showplace for pickles, nature’s cruelest joke right after progeria, that disease where children rapidly age. I did not know such a place existed before this day. I did not know that an entire room, let alone 10,000 square feet, could be filled with the wonders of pickles. There were pickled food products such as cotton candy (gross) and, well, basically that was it other than the actual pickles. For the record, I despise pickles. A pickle once tried to kill me. I did take a picture with a mock-up of a pickle though. It’s called facing your fears. Sister seemed to enjoy the place, though, so it was cool. And they had a gift shop! My daughter bought a shirt with a pickle on it that side something like “I like it dirty” or something.

Right next to Pickle-o-rama was a Western wear outlet. Surprisingly we found nothing that we liked. But the seed was planted. I’ve lived here close to ten years and have yet to embrace this local attire. True, many people in Texas actually do dress like cowboys. Some of them actually are cowboys. I am a Northerner who has never truly felt like I belonged here. But my children have insured that I have little hair left on top of my head and I’m a sucker for a nice hat. Sister wanted boots. She tried on 1200 pairs, turned to my wife and me, and said, “Nothing fits. What’s for lunch?”

After a lovely meal, we ventured into the Fort Worth Stockyards. We listened to Sister’s eclectic selection of music. How a recently kicked-out ex-nun has any music on her phone is beyond me. It was mostly pop music and some classic country which I’m totally cool with. The Stockyards is an historic district just north of downtown Fort Worth. It is famous for housing an honest-to-goodness cattle market. Apparently cattle need daily exercise so twice a day a group of cowboys “stampede” about 12 sickly longhorn steers down Main St. to the delight of the tourists. I took out my phone and played the Aaron Copeland symphony Rodeo. You might remember it from the old beef industry commercials. One of the cows dropped dead. Sister and I laughed. As the song finished we both said in unison, “Beef: It’s what’s for dinner.”

After failing to find anything more than another bar at the Stockyards we headed to the home of other friends who have know both my wife and Sister for years. Along the way we stopped at another Western outlet. This time, Daddy found what he’d been looking for. Say hello to my new black felt Stetson. And they had my size too! It’s hard to find a 7 9/8. Possibly another reason I don’t fit in here. My father always told me I had a larger skull to accommodate a bigger brain. Sister’s hat size is even larger. She did not find a hat. I was sad for her. To alleviate my grief I also bought a pair of jeans and a graphic tee with a picture of an oil derrick that says “I like it crude”. My wife now officially hates me.

Remember that lovely lunch we ate? Yeah, something about the spices they used at that Mexican joint wasn’t sitting well with me. I had been uncharacteristically experiencing heartburn all afternoon. We forgot to stop at Walgreens for Tums on the way home so I asked my wife when we walked in the house if we had any in the medicine closet. It really wasn’t that bad, just an annoyance. Also I’m 43 and now believe that every minor malady is a heart attack. Welcome to maturity! “Honey,” she said, “just take one of these,” as she handed me a prescription bottle. I must state this off the bat. I ALWAYS trust my wife. For some reason this time, however, I did not. I took the bottle as she walked away and quietly slipped into the pantry where I Googled the medicine’s name. My wife believed in her heart she had handed me an antacid. In fact she had even written the word “antacid” on the bottle with a pencil. But drugs.com said otherwise. Staring back at me from my phone was the following.

Lysteda (tranexamic acid) is a man-made form of an amino acid (protein) called lysine. Tranexamic acid prevents enzymes in the body from breaking down blood clots. Lysteda is used to treat heavy menstrual bleeding. This medication will not treat premenstrual syndrome (PMS).

“Sweetness,” I called into the other room. “Um, you know these ain’t Tums, right?” I showed her the website and she just about died laughing. Wondering what was so funny other than that she had tried to give me, a MAN, something to stop a nonexistent yet heavy menstrual flow, she said, “I’m pretty sure I gave those to my sister’s husband like three or four times on different holiday gatherings.”

Our laughter was only interrupted by two words I never thought I’d ever hear in my house, certainly not in such an elfish tone.

“Yankee Candle!”

With that I dutifully returned to my bar to whip up a few bijous. And all were happy.

In Part 3 you will travel with us into the heart of Dallas’ obsession with the 35th President of the United States and discover the moment when Sister finally finds her hat. Don’t worry. The snowstorm and blackout eventually show up.

Life with Sister: Tales from the Great Texas Blizzard & Blackout of ’21 – Part 1

Posted on February 21, 2021 | 1 comment

The following story recounts the past two weeks of my life. I am a husband and father to two wonderful pre-teen children. I live in a modest house in the Dallas, TX area. I intend no politics, am not assigning blame, nor am I writing to convey anger over the blackouts. I am simply a man who lives a bizarre life and likes to write. With that being said, here now, part 1.

Monday February 8, 2021

Perhaps the first thing you should know, especially if you are new to these pages, is that I homeschool my children. For over 15 years I worked as a high school teacher and later, a school administrator. Last summer, not looking forward to masks and temperature checks for myself or my children, I decided to take a shot at something I had always wanted to do. The moment was never going to be better than it was to treat myself to a year (hopefully more) of being the principal of my own school. Also, I kind of dig walking through my kitchen to get to my classroom. Another thing you should know is that my family and I are cradle Catholics. Some would even label us “traditionalist” Catholics. The Catholic faith and culture are as much a part of our life together as oxygen. True enough, we attend a Latin mass parish but that is what works for us. A final point of which you should be aware is that between my wife and me, we know thousands of people. I come from an enormous family (14th of 16) and my wife is just phenomenal at everything and loved by all. She could legitimately spend her days literally stomping on the knuckles of hangers-on trying to come within her sphere for warmth. She doesn’t. In particular, she has many friends with whom she has remained close since college. All of these facts will play a part in what is to come.

Several weeks ago my wife received a text from one such college friend. We will simply call her “Sister”. That’s because she’s an ex-nun. You’ve probably heard divorcees lament that “I didn’t leave my spouse. My spouse left me.” Well, Sister’s order left her. In fact, it disbanded, or it was suppressed by the Vatican. We’re really not sure. The point is, she’s not an “ex”-nun by choice. It was more of an indifference sort of thing. “My spouse left me” takes on a whole new meaning when one is a bride of Christ. Having spent the past fifteen years in complete silence, using only rudimentary sign language and finger puppets to convey her thoughts, Sister’s family ~~forced~~ advised her to take a vacation. Owing to the fact that every time we’ve seen her in the past few years we’ve invited her to come visit us in Texas, Sister’s first thought was to take said vacation in the Lone Star State. But of course, she would be our most welcome guest! Our preparation consisted of me 1) determining to “shuffle around some school work with the kids” to accommodate her visit and all the fun day trips we would make and 2) calling Alma. Who is Alma? Well, Alma is only the best kept secret in town. That may be because she is in the country undocumentedly. In truth, I do not know. What I do know is that she can clean a house like it’s nobody’s business. The process usually involves several unaswered text messages listing multiple potential days and finally a reply that says simply: “Yes.” I think she uses a burner phone. Having secured her scrubbing skills, I woke up early on this morning – it’s still the 8th if you forgot because of my verbosity – I unlocked the door and welcomed Alma. Alma politely brushed past me while looking over her shoulder. “Close door. I clean now,” she said most politely yet with a tinge of both fear and disgust in her eyes. “Also, don’t tell no one I’m here.” Looking at her earnestly I said, “But Alma, I don’t know anyone who knows you.” To this she replied, “Keep it that way,” and then she commenced vacuuming my drapes.

While Alma dusted and shined I suddenly remembered that one of my nephews – a young man in his early 20’s – had also asked to come stay with us this week. He had time off and wanted to visit one of my nieces – a young lady in her early 20’s who happens to live with us – and particularly to visit her lady friends. Ah, the mind of a young man… Always looking for, um, platonic friendship? Yeah, he wasn’t here to see us, to be sure. Nonetheless, I did have to leave Alma while I drove out to the airport to get the lad. On the drive I used my background in logistics to figure out where he would stay. I dropped him off at home, shoved him and his baggage into my daughter’s room, paid Alma her cash (unmarked bills), and watched her instantly vaporize through the chimney. “Don’t… tell… no one…” she said as she vanished. Boy she’s something else. Also, we don’t have a chimney so it was really magical.

Next up, I rolled a die to determine which of my children would be my favorite this day. Kidding. They’re both my favorite. The girl. Using reverse psychology, I took the boy and left daughter at home while I went shopping for Sister’s impending arrival. We went to a giant warehouse store. There are five of us normally under our roof and the one added guest has lived off of rice and donated donuts for two decades so this was going to be a challenge. I stocked up on cases of soda, mini quiches, and other things to make our exclostrated guest feel at home. Then I headed to my happy place, a liquor store called Total Wine, or as I call it, Wine Totale. I like to class it up sometimes. Sister had enjoyed her cocktails while we were in school. Let’s see if she can still hold her liquor. While roaming the aisles I overheard a customer and a sales associate discussing gin. And the fourth thing you needed to know about me is that I have had a love affair with Dutch Courage since college. I know my gin. And my gin knows me. The information being given the poor shopper by the young clerk was so wrong I absolutely had to interject. I told her about the wonders of gin, its history, and then helped her pick a bottle. “What are you making with it, might I ask?” I said. She told me it was for some “ancient cocktail” her husband had heard about called a bijou. The bijou dates to the 1890’s and contains equal parts gin, chartreuse, and sweet vermouth. I was intrigued enough to stock up on all of that. Looking into my cart at the already full supply of other gin, rum, and an assortment of Texas whiskeys, she asked, “And what are you making with all that?” My son, who is undeniably my son, shot back, “We’re not making anything. Just getting ready to entertain an ex-nun.” And we walked away.

Wine Totalé has a great gin selection. If you look closely, you’ll see this is their rum selection.

I stopped at daily mass, came home, and made some finishing touches to the house. This included assembling our traditional “Texas Welcome Gift Basket” for Sister’s room. My wife and daughter had even made Texas-shaped chocolates for her. Finally the hour approached to return to the airport and collect Sister. I entered the terminal and noticed how empty it was. Air travel has really taken a hit this past year. It was in that emptiness that I was able to hear the little things that make my life more fun.

THUD!

I turned around to see a middle-aged woman lying on the ground on top of a piece of rolling luggage. In her fall she had completely bent the extended handle of her suitcase. She came to rest in front of an elevator that I think she was attempting to board. I looked around, noticed two other people. We all looked at each other and then, out of a sense of human decency, approached the woman to assist her. As I got within a few feet I smelled the familiar waft of alcohol that has traveled through the bloodstream and, finding no room at the inn, decided to exit the body via the pores. This chick was sauced. My first guess was that she had enjoyed the hell out of first class and now could not find her way outside of a paper bag, let alone an airport terminal. We got her situated with some medical assistance and a bottle of water from a vending machine and I turned around just in time to see Sister walking toward the baggage carousel.

Sister is a character of epic proportions. She loves Texas, having spent some of her youth here. She is a bigger fan of pop culture, including the TV series Dallas, than even me. She loves a good meal, perhaps almost as much as I do. We got into my car. I connected my phone and the radio blasted the theme to Dallas. “So much fun!” she said. “Why don’t you go pick up Whataburger while I get my rental car and head to your house?” And that’s just what I did.

To close out day one, I offered Sister a drink. “Sister,” I said, “Let me fix you a bijou.” She looked at me like I had just announced the death of the Roman pontiff on state-run TV. “I’m game,” she replied. Here I set to work making a cocktail I had never made, nor did I know would be potable. I did this with all the swagger of a bartender who’s served up drinks for years at the same establishment. As in, “Trust me, you’ll like it. There is no other option.” I poured two bijous and we toasted Sister’s arrival and visit. Sister took a sip. Sister put her glass on the counter. Sister said the following.

“Tastes like a Yankee Candle. From the 1890’s.”

And that was day one. “Where’s the snowstorm? What happened to the blackout?!” you ask. Patience, friends. All will be revealed.

1 Comment

Posted in Catholic Blog, cocktails, Family, Food/Drink, Humor, Lone Star Life, Texas, weather

Tagged bijou, cocktails, dailypost, entertaining, family, gin, humor, postaday, priest, Texas, texas blackout, texas snowstorm '21, traditional catholic, undocumented workers, unusual cocktails, Whataburger

Nails and Gins

Posted on February 6, 2020 | 4 comments

My mom is in town for a visit and to attend the upcoming wedding of my sister-in-law.

So I took her to get her nails done before the wedding. There’s a reason men shouldn’t be in these places. Mom picked out a color and then said “Maybe I’ll get one nail done up in something special,” while pointing to something with glitter. “Like a coke nail?” I asked with some incredulity. The woman has seen her share of Law & Order so I thought maybe it was a thing. “We call that an ‘accent nail’,” said the woman behind the counter.

You learn something new every day. Next it’s off to the hair place. Perhaps we’ll find some gin along the way.

Speaking of gin… In late November a big, beautiful, upscale liquor store opened nearby. Since I am a big, beautiful, upscale drunk this was a natural fit and made me very happy. Those of you who’ve ever known me know that I have a penchant for gin. Recently a friend shared an article with me that declared that those who drink gin and tonic are psychopaths. It didn’t say we were “likely to be” psychopaths. No, this hurtful group of words masquerading as a scientific journal said straight up that I’m a psycho. Sure, drinking gin has been likened to drinking a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and the British did attribute the collapse of their country’s middle class to gin a few hundred years ago. Where was I going with this? Oh yes, the liquor store…

I’ve made a resolution not to buy the same bottle twice until I’ve tried all the gins I haven’t tried. This place has a whole aisle devoted to my favorite spirit so it might take a while. Then again, I’m a psychopath so maybe not. Recently I tried Aviation which was nice but had notes of something I’m not quite sure of. In other words, it wasn’t great. Last night I picked up a bottle of Oregon Spirit. This made me think of the Oregon Trail. If I get dysentery and die from drinking this I will be quite peeved.

That’s all.

4 Comments

Posted in cocktails, Family, Food/Drink

Tagged dad blog, dailypost, family, gin, nail salon, postaday

Kids and Their Grandmothers: Another Road Trip – Day 5

Posted on June 5, 2019 | Leave a comment

Missed it’s procession over the line where sea meets sky but still snagged a neat pic.

The year was 2006. I had only one week earlier proposed to my wife (well, she wasn’t yet my wife; that’s why I proposed). She had been in the habit along with a handful of friends from college and their ever-growing families of traveling to the Outer Banks of North Carolina every year around the end of summer. They would all rent a house and enjoy a week of fun at the beach. Now that I was entering into this fray I, too, would be invited along. It was lots of fun for about two days. And then… a tropical storm struck the Carolina coast. One of the group, heeding the weather reports early, decided to pack his family and bailed. He’s Canadian, though, so I think tropical storm warnings are especially traumatic. I had been assured that “these things happen all the time” and that there was “no need to worry” and that I should “stop being such an amazingly good-looking but dreadfully cautious killjoy”.

The storm came. The roads flooded. After one day of looking out the window and NOT seeing water recede I decided I should probably try to make a break for it. I got in my car and headed south on the beach road for exactly one-half mile. Attempting to drive through standing water that didn’t look that deep my car – a brand new Dodge Magnum – shorted out and died. Long story short: I walked back to the beach house, a friend of my wife helped me push the car to a local supermarket parking lot, and I borrowed my new fiance’s pickup to drive back to New Jersey. The insurance company sent an adjuster who deemed a new engine was in order. Turns out it just needed spark plugs. A few weeks later I had reclaimed my vehicle and life went on. The following summer, as a newly married man I returned to the beach with my wife. We were already expecting our first child (though we had not yet told anyone) and we enjoyed a few days of sun and sand. The summer after that, with a six week-old boy in tow we ventured on the first of many family cross-country road trips and I began documenting them in writing.

Which brings us to today – Monday or Day 5 if you like.

The thing is that even though nothing much happened yesterday, even less happened today (hence the long and winding intro). We played on the beach During the day and in the pool when the sun went down. My wife and I prepared dinner and drinks for 50 people. You know, typical stuff. But one thing that did happen struck me as ironic considering how this all began…

I always have a hard time sleeping on vacation. I don’t know if it’s the change in bed or the change in atmosphere. Something just seems to prevent me getting a good night’s sleep. Today was no exception. I woke up around 5:45 because of the sunlight pouring into the room “like butterscotch” as Joni Mitchell would say. I was excited because at least I would see the sunrise over the Atlantic. Look, it’s not like I go looking for these things but when they happen in my presence I try to make the most of them. I’ve seen the sunrise before but there is something really awe-inspiring watching it come up over the ocean. It truly gives one a sense of the majesty of God. I stepped outside onto the balcony. And I immediately realized that Mr. Golden Sun was already over Mr. Horizon by a few degrees. Damn. I missed it. No worries though. I opened my laptop, went to Youtube, and entered “sunrise ocean corolla nc”. Within moments I was watching what I had just missed – time-lapsed, no less! Saved me the trouble of waiting through the whole boring thing. Then I went upstairs to the kitchen for my black coffee, then downstairs to the driveway to jump rope for a half-hour.

In 2006 there was no going to Youtube to watch a sunrise. I mean, I think there was a Youtube then but it wasn’t a part of everyday life as it is now and there wasn’t nearly as much content. There also was no “black” coffee. Until four years ago I used to give my dad a coronary every morning when I’d pour cream and sugar into my morning Joe. “Why not drink it like a man?” he’d ask me. “Dad, I’m 37 years-old. You shut up because I am a MAN!” I likely never said those words but if I did I likely said them like the guy from that episode of Law & Order called “American Jihad”. Yeah, you’d have to have seen it I guess. In 2006 there certainly was no jumping rope for this guy. I think at the time I fancied myself being “in shape”. I also fancied myself having great flexibility despite already having had my spine fused five years earlier. I did not care what I ate (which included nothing that wasn’t meat). If you had asked me to pick up a rope and jump over it for 30 minutes I would have accepted the challenge and then promptly died. Times change. People change. The sun still comes up. Man always desires to better himself. And Dad will always be right. I still can’t imagine why I ever put anything into my coffee.

One more thing that wasn’t a thing in 2006 was you, son. And yet, this morning after I did all of my ridiculousness I walked into your room, shook you from your sleep as only a dad of an 11 year-old young man can, and said loudly “WAKE UP!!! It’s time for fun!” See the thing is I didn’t care if you slept. I wanted your company. I love hanging out with you and my waking hours are kind of boring if you’re not a part of them. You grumbled. I jumped on the bed. You muttered something about hating life. I pulled the covers off. It was great fun. And where did we go from there? Well, since you share my DNA I’ve often planned our time together based on what I want to do. The thought is that if I enjoy it, you will too. And if you don’t we’ll blame your mom. In short order you were dressed and we were off on a morning walk. The Dunkin’ Donuts is only a mile away and I was craving something more than black coffee. Figured you’d like a donut and we could enjoy some father-son time together.

What I didn’t count on was your determination to be even less physical at that hour of the morning and on vacation than I was at any hour of the day when I was in my 30’s. Three blocks from the beach house and you dropped this gem on me: “Dad, when we get there do you think we can Uber back?”

Yes, I did just hear that correctly.

Uber wasn’t a thing in 2006. And it wasn’t going to be a thing today either. We got to DD, grabbed our breakfast, and WALKED back to the house. And you know you’re happy we did because along the way we passed something really neat. We took a slightly different route and encountered the rather sizable fire/rescue station. Since the Outer Banks are kind of isolated one might figure that a rescue station would have to be well-equipped to handle any kind of life-threatening emergency. What neither of us figured was that they would have “it” right out front. “It” was a concrete pad – but not just any concrete pad. “It” was a concrete pad with a giant letter “H” painted in an even gianter circle smack in the middle of the pad.

“Look!” we both said in unison. “A helicopter landing pad!!!” Like two little boys excited over the dumbest thing we both squeeled with delight at the prospect that a helicopter might swoop in at any point during the day. We walked a little further. “Of course, son,” I said, “that would require someone to have to kind of die or something.” We paused in sadness for a moment. And then you looked up at me.

“But it would be kind of awesome.”

It would indeed my boy. It would indeed.

For moments of clarity when God allows me grace to compare my life today with my life before kids and to know that it’s so much better now; I am most thankful.

Impatience, Changes, and Immutability

Posted on January 14, 2019 | Leave a comment

Impatience

My wife is out of town. I miss her. A lot. I’m eager to have her home. I know the kids sure are. Just when I think I’ve gotten a handle on playing “Daddy” I have to discover that I also have to sometimes play “Mommy”. I’ve been managing and I’m always grateful for the time spent with them.

They’re getting older. I don’t like that. Except that I do. Both of them seem to have inherited my sense of humor – or rather, different aspects of my sense of humor. Take for instance my son. Over the weekend we found ourselves in the greeting card aisle of the supermarket. A friend’s son just had a birthday. Since he’s also one of my favorite former students (the son, not the friend) I was picking up a card to drop in his mailbox. Son and I looked at the offerings. One card said on the outside: “Congratulations!” And on the inside: “You’re a great friend!” Almost in unison my boy and I said “Congratulations… You’re an idiot!” We laughed a little too hard at ourselves. On the way to the car he was still laughing when I told him “Listen, son, I’m going to have to go back in and buy that card and then write inside it, put it in an envelope, and mail it. In a few days it will arrive right back at our house addressed to you. You’ll open it and read “You’re an idiot!” and laugh some more.

I’m not exactly sure why that’s funny but it was.

My daughter? Oh, she’s something else. On Saturday night she got into a fit of complaints. I recognize what she’s going through. I didn’t always know how to express myself at that age. I still don’t except through writing. I’ve gotten very good at public speaking and impromptu addresses. I am a teacher after all. But when I was young I sometimes couldn’t find the words especially if I was sad or angry. She didn’t know how to say that she was frustrated with a situation… Until she finally screamed at me in the car “I’m FRUSTRATED!” Calmly I turned to her. “Good job, lady! You did it!!! Now let it out!” Then I told her what I say when I’m frustrated, replacing most of the words with the word “blank” or “blankety-blank”. “Real easy, sweetheart, you just wait until you’re alone in your car and say it all. No one can hear you and no one’s the wiser and you feel a lot better.” Getting out of the car she said “Daddy, I’m sorry I said all of that to you earlier.” She was truly contrite. It was a breakthrough. I took her aside and, stooping down, put my arm around her. “It’s OK baby. Just be careful not to speak to Daddy again like that. Or I’ll snap you like a twig and dump you in the lake.” On that sentence my voice trailed off a bit and I gazed into the distance. We both looked at each other – she was a bit of mocking terror in her eyes, me with a Hallmark smile and a twinkle in mine. And then we laughed very hard.

Speaking of impatience, I bought my wife an InstantPot for Christmas. She hasn’t had a chance to use it yet. Today I had a few hours free. I FaceTimed my sister in Jersey and she walked me through a few finer points. This evening, thanks to her guidance, I made chicken teriyaki in about 20 minutes. If you know me, you know I’m not a cook. I’m also not patient. I stand in front of a microwave yelling “HURRY UP!” But boy was this thing easy. Five minutes of prep time (throwing a bunch of things in the pot). Ten minutes to pressurize. Twenty minutes to cook. It was quite tasty too. I told my wife about my adventure with dinner on the phone. Not quite impressed… I don’t quite think she gets what a game-changer this will be that I finally feel confident making dinners that, even though I’m cheating with the awesome power of steam, might approach one-tenth the level of edibility of her cooking. And she won’t have to lift a finger!

Changes

How ’bout the new look? I mentioned I was making some changes. And today I did it. I took over 1700 posts from the previous 8 years and archived them. It’s time for a fresh start to Harvey. What went before is great and I will always laugh when I look back and read my posts. Sometimes I will cry. But it’s time to move on. This is what I like to think of as “Harvey 2”. What you will encounter now are more posts about the kids, more posts about my life as a Catholic dad, more posts about the blessings God has given us. I want to be uplifting. I want to be real. I want to share my life.

But every blog worth its salt has a focus, almost a hyper-focus. So mine is now this: confessions of a Catholic dad doing his best to raise saints. The original taglines have been swapped out for something new and concise. And the best part is that it’s now all under the URL of harveymillican.com! I finally broke down and snatched up my domain. That should make sharing by word of mouth a bit easier. Will those old posts ever make an appearance again? Sure, in the pages of the books I’m writing.

Immutability

Christ is the same yesterday, today, forever. My commitment to daily mass is going strong, thanks be to God. I need it. I need to grace. Dad taught me this and I have to honor him. Each day I will bring my prayers to the altar and they will always include a prayer for each of you who read (double prayers if you comment). I have hope that God will make me a better husband, a better father, and a better man if I only approach Him every day, offer my prayers with the sacrifice of His Son, and receive the Lord with humility. Pray for me that I keep this up.

God bless!